Carl and Pearl Douglas almost lost their faith when they lost their son in an accident. (By Michael Williamson – The Washington Post)

By Carl Douglas
Saturday, December 5, 1998; Page B09

"Faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

So ends one of the most famous biblical passages: Corinthians 1:13, often called the "Love Chapter." These words had strengthened the faith of my wife, Pearl, and me throughout our 35-year marriage.

But two years ago they became hollow, with little meaning. If God loved us, why did he take our 31-year-old son, Barry? He was the joy of our lives, the son every parent dreams of having. Successful and full of joy, he was a principled young man who influenced many lives with his honesty and zest for life.

Barry was a coastal engineer working on a small boat off the coast of Hilton Head Island, S.C., on that afternoon in March 1996. The crew was taking soil samples for a dredging project when a storm hit. Somehow the line from the soil-sampling rig to the ocean floor fouled the boat's propeller and immobilized the 27-foot craft. The boat wallowed in the angry ocean's trough, and a large wave overturned it, dumping all five occupants into the frigid water. All five perished.

I was angry with God. My faith was a shambles. Why? Why did this happen? I read and reread the biblical account of Christ rescuing the disciples from a storm in the Sea of Galilee. Barry's death was caused by a practically identical storm. Why didn't God rescue my son?

The pain and despair of grief rapidly engulfed Pearl and me. The death of a child is unexpected and incomprehensible. Children normally bury their parents, not the other way around. But we couldn't even bury Barry because we didn't have his remains. Three bodies had been found, but not Barry's.

I cried out to God: "You have taken our son, but can't we at least have his body for a decent burial? Why are you punishing us so severely?"

I could not reconcile my anguish with God's reputed goodness.

Our family and friends prayed for us that Barry's remains would be found. After waiting three weeks, we scheduled a memorial service. A few hours before the service, his body was miraculously found and identified. He was recovered 60 miles out to sea by fishermen on a small boat. The probability of that occurring in the big ocean 23 days after the accident and just hours before his memorial service was near zero without God's intervention.

God's answering our prayer was the first step in the restoration of our faith. Other steps were not immediately forthcoming. I read the 23rd Psalm: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." I wanted to reconnect with the Great Comforter, who might sustain us, but these words brought me little peace.

Another potential disaster awaited us. Pearl and I hurt so much as individuals, we were unable to help each other in the normal helpmate mode of a marriage. Hence, not only our faith but our marriage was in a fragile state. I discovered that the divorce rate for bereaved parents is 65 to 85 percent.

In our case, awareness was a big step toward avoiding divorce. Pearl and I were ensnared in grief's emotions: anger, lack of patience, the "life-is-not fair" syndrome and loneliness that drifted into isolation.

We decided that we would not let these negative attitudes control our destiny and damage our marriage. We decided to get better rather than continue to be bitter.

Did we heal, and if so, how? Several relationships contributed to our return to normalcy. The Compassionate Friends, an international organization for bereaved parents and siblings, played a part. We talked with leaders of the Arlington chapter and read grief literature from its library that helped us understand how others had weathered similar tragedies.

Our faith was renewed by God's love as revealed through his people. The primary support came from the members of our church, who cried with us, put their arms around us and cared for us with true Christian compassion.

Four individuals, whom we dubbed our Earthly Saints, helped us on our pilgrimage: the Coast Guard commandant in Charleston, S.C., from whom we learned of the accident; Barry's boss; the Charleston coroner who identified the body hours before the memorial service; and the widow of the boat's captain, who also was the mother of its crew. Each one helped us find the road out of grief's wilderness.

But we also realized that faith, like love, is a two-way process. We decided the best way to honor our son's memory was to help others. I speak at grief seminars, and we are publishing a book on our spiritual journey.

Barry's death took us to life's darkest side, and a return to the sunshine was not easy. Through God's grace, we were able to get on with life. And once again these words are meaningful: "Faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

Carl Douglas, 59, retired last month after working for the Navy for nearly 40 years, first as an officer and later as a private defense contractor. The Douglases live in Fairfax and attend Parkwood Baptist Church in Annandale.